


Bucky-Devil

by cinnabonrollouis



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Hence the title, M/M, Minor Violence, and bucky uses some period-typical strong language, and i sat down and wrote this in like an hour ahahahaha, bucky becomes like part-time daredevil, so i saw a post about Steve being pissed about cat-calling, there's one homophobic slur?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 15:33:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6811222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnabonrollouis/pseuds/cinnabonrollouis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This century is so—great. In so many ways. Better meds, more money, all the fancy tech,” Steve grimaces, “I just don’t get, how people who are so <em>advanced</em>,” he says acerbically, “Can talk to dames as disrespectfully as they do.” Bucky nods and fights back a smile at the memory of skinny lil’ Steve Rogers with buck-teeth and knobbly knees threatening to sock a neighbor boy for trying to lift up Susie Klinger’s skirt with a stick. <em>Some things never change.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Bucky-Devil

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a lil guilty pleasure fic about two boys who believe that ladies deserve a lil' respect, ya know?
> 
> I've also written life's terrific thunder, here on ao3. 
> 
> I also moonlight on my mess™ One Direction/Marvel/Girls blog, buckylouie.tumblr.com

Steve Rogers swears loudly over the sound of the television.

“I just can’t believe it, I just can’t _believe_ it.”

Bucky Barnes sits on the window seat in their apartment, slightly lowering his newspaper to see his boy pacing back and forth in their living room, all 300-and-somethin’ pounds of muscle heaving here and there in anger. His face is screwed up real tight, eyes hard and jaw set. Bucky folds the paper and stands, walking over to Steve and stopping him mid-pace, one hand on each shoulder, and leans down to look him in the eye. “Whatsa’ matter, punk? What’s gotcha panties all up in a twist?” Steve’s face screws up more, then drops, the blond shaking his head.

“This century is so—great. In so many ways. Better meds, more money, all the fancy tech,” he grimaces, “I just don’t get, how people who are so _advanced_ ,” Steve says acerbically, “Can talk to dames as disrespectfully as they do.” Bucky nods and fights back a smile at the memory of a skinny lil’ Steve Rogers with buck-teeth and knobbly knees threatening to sock a neighbor-boy for trying to lift up Susie Klinger’s skirt with a stick. _Some things never change._

The blond shakes his head again, “I was out for a run yesterday, and a passed a young lady who was being honked and hollered at all down the street. Was over in the corner store not even an hour ago, and a man kept trying to look down the blouse of the sweet lil’ lady at the till! And they’re all as uncomfortable as anything, but these hotshots won’t let ‘em be! Only keep leerin’ and starin’ and talkin’ saucy about their—” he huffs out a breath, “I just wish I could rough ‘em up or somethin’. Like back in the—” he sighs. “All I can do is tell ‘em off. And most times they nod to me and walk away, and keep on goin’ at it once I leave it’s just so,” he clenches his fists, “ _frustrating_.”

Bucky rubs a hand into his boy’s shoulder, soothing it until he relaxes, and then pulls Steve close for a hug. “Goddammit, Rogers, 90 years old and you’re still a two-foot-tall white knight in spit-shined armor.” That pulls a laugh out of Steve, and he leans into Bucky’s hug a little harder before he pulls away, looking much better.

“I just wish I could do somethin’, ya know?” he says wistfully, “Someone should. Ladies deserve to feel safe walkin’ in their own cities. They shouldn’t have ta feel like they can’t leave their homes without someone harrassin’ ‘em for no reason.”

Bucky nods, “Yeah. Someone should do somethin’ about it alright.”

++++++++++++++++

Clarissa Stevens is walking down the street with her chin as high as she can manage to hold it. _Just ignore them._

“Heeeeeeey baby. How ya’ doin’? You look a little lonely up there, why don’t you hang out with us.” One of them calls, his words slurring. Another laughs, “You look so sexy in those pants baby. Lotsa guys think girls who wear slacks are dykes, but baby they suit your pretty lil’ ass like nothin’ else.” Clarissa clenches her fists, the left around her pocket knife and the right around her pepper spray. _Take a deep breath. And keep on fucking walking Clarissa Marie._

Suddenly she feels a hand around her wrist that startles her so much that she drops her pepper spray. The man pulls her into his chest and breathes in her face, he smells like cigarettes and Jack Daniels his eyes are only half-open. He smiles sloppily and tries to kiss her. “Get the fuck off me.” She says, shoving him away from her. He stumbles a little but comes right back, flanked on both sides by his friends. “Aw c’mon baby, why don’t you be a good girl and—” Clarissa flips out her knife and waves it in the glare of the streetlight so they can see.

“Leave me the fuck alone.” she says firmly, “You’re all drunk, and I’m not interested. Come near me again I’m gonna fucking stab you.” She raises an eyebrow, leaning down to pick up her pepper spray and backing up with the knife still pointed in their direction.

The boys don’t seem to get the message. They rush at her and kick the pepper spray into the alley nearest to them, grabbing her hand with the knife and pulling it behind her, shaking the wrist so she drops the knife with a clatter. She struggles, kicking her feet and yelling at the top of her lungs. One of the men presses a hand messily over her open mouth, cutting off her scream. The three of them pull her back into the alley and the one holding her backs up against a wall, holding her still and kicking apart her legs. She continues to fight, trying to bite the hand over her mouth and throwing her head back at the man holding her, but it’s no use. She swallows a sob and closes her eyes.

“What the f—”

Clarissa hears the sound of flesh meeting the ground, several grunts and a wet gasp, like someone got sucker-punched. She feels the man behind her let her go, and she drops in a heap to the ground. She looks at the two men, bleeding and unmoving on the ground, and then watches as the third who was holding her stumbles out of the alley. Before he can reach the street a—holy _shit_ — _metal_ hand that glints in the light of the streetlamps, snatches him by the shirt and slams him up against the wall and drags his body back over to her. The man attached to the hand stops in front of Clarissa, and offers his other hand, this one is human, to help her stand. She takes it, but she still can’t see the man’s face because it’s covered in a black mask that matches the rest of the man’s clothes.

“Are you—are you alright?” the man asks in heavily accented English that she can somehow hear through the mask. Clarissa nods. “You’re krovotecheniye—” he grunts, “There’s krov'. _Blood._ At your—” he brushes his forehead with his flesh hand, the metal one still miraculously keeping the drunk, who is moaning softly, pinned to the wall. Clarissa reaches up her hand to her hairline, feeling wetness there. She pulls it away and sees the blood on her fingertips glow in the streetlight. Her mouth drops open and she looks at the man, still shocked. He’s already turned back to the drunk, holding him harder to the wall and murmuring softly in the same language he just spoke to her.

“You have something to say to her? Huh?” the masked man asks, his accent totally different, a low sweet twang that reminds Clarissa of her mom’s mother who spent her childhood in Hell’s Kitchen in the 50’s, and presses him harder against the wall, “Somethin’ you wanna say you no good, cock-suckin’ SOB? You wanna say somethin’ to this young lady right here ‘cause I wanna hear it ya low, rotten, lil’ prick or I’m gonna tear ya apart _piece_ by—”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m, we didn’t mean nothin’ we weren’t gonna do nothin’ I just wanted to pay ya a complement I just—” the masked man socks him in the mouth and watches as his body slips to the ground, unconscious. He takes a step back from the man and turns to face Clarissa. He’s at least a foot and a half taller than her. He takes a step away from her and reaches into his pocket slowly, pulling out a little pack of tissues. He opens it and holds one out to her hesitantly, “For your rana—” he says in the foreign accent again, softly touching his forehead, “The wound, on, on your—” she reaches out and takes the tissue, pressing it softly to her forehead as she looks at the mask on his face, the red googles and black cover that goes down to his chin. He nods, putting the tissue pack back in his pocket and turning around to pick up something on the ground behind him. She tries to keep her breaths level as he walks back to her and holds out her closed pocket knife and pepper spray. She takes them quickly, holding them close to her chest.

“That knife is good.” He says, “If there is a next time, do less talking and more stabbing, okay?” she huffs out a wet laugh, then lets out a little sob. The man ducks his head, and then reaches up to slide the mask off. Behind it he’s a gray-eyed white man with dark stubble and a strong chin. His eyes are reserved, but kind.

He holds out a hand, “Let’s get you to a hospital and get that checked out. That okay, honey?” she nods and places her hand in his, following him out of the alley.


End file.
